12/31/09

I just realizedthat my troublescome in doubles,but yours come in triples;so I am extending to youmy condolenceson your most recent tragedies,the shit that happened to youthat won't be seen as comedieson the small screen;the stuff that really could get youunhinged,loosened, even if on a binge:the sort of maladiesthat discard all those vanities:like you ever needed a mask,baby,you just needed a task.

12/30/09

there's this dude:he doesn't "show it"(as Lord Byron would say,if this were still his day,following general rules)and still, and here's the kill --he's a 'hattanite,way far from a luddite,or even a hittite --but with all your witdark or half-lit,can you figure it:who should be grantedthis title,master of all entitled,crafter of all mannerof pomes?

12/27/09

the ocean is angryon this last Sunday morning of 2009,with two-foot seaskissing the fog, roughly,as the tide charges the shore,heading straight for me,the lone scribbler,once again pining for You;my love cannot plumbthese surly waters,it can only seek refugein the pavilion hereat the First Church of Ned's Point,which You christenedon a sunny, more hospitable daylast August,when Your eyes lit my way,and Your laughter was my soundtrack;this stormy day does nothingto erase the mind's images,caught and kept,wrestling and surging,floating out of my eyes,surrounding me.

12/26/09

(your favorite poet is a bit low on the lively scale, and offers the following, written last month, as something for you to enjoy while he tries valiantly to find a reason to go on; well, okay, maybe I am not your favorite poet, but still, humor me, please)

outside my window today,the chickadee symphonyplays away the day,as my November soulfeels so old and grey:wishing that it wereanother day in May;anything to remove this ringfrom around my neck;cast off the weight of repose,and throw myselfat the feet of all thosewho wish me well:aw, what the hell,I have done it,just as I chose.

12/25/09

the clouds have clamped a tight lidon the whole of the harborand all of the bay that can be seenfrom Ned's Pointthis Christmas Morning,as I sit, pensive, prayingto some god, somewhere,thanking her for the gift of You;I am, all told, not much of a man,surely not one to be rememberedin history booksor nursery rhymes,but I have had a few looks,and more than a few timesthat may be worth recounting,the sum total of whichmight be something amountingto something;but the best, for sure,has been saved for last,time with You, loved, and passed.

12/24/09

I remember the birthof the mirth, of the joy,though I was only a small boy:I remember Christmas,untouched, unblemished,a simple time, one to relish,enjoying the ordinary pleasuresas if they were new-found treasures;

now it all seems so stale,so old and forgotten,so much a sad taleof times misbegotten;

maybe it's just me,maybe I have lost all mysilly carefree serendipity;

in any event, I do not wantto dampen, or otherwise tamperyour merriment this night,or to even temper your joywith some of my sad employ;

go on, and you make the most of it,and I will watch, from farther off,and see the best of whichyour good heart makes of such,and cheer you on,and cheer you on;

I am here with you, always,just sometimes a bit further on,just sometimes a bit further on.

I did an inventorya few minutes ago,okay maybe an hour ago, sue me;and I figured out thatthere are, I think, four peopleout of the billions on this planet,who love mewithout condition;which is a big deal,if you know anything aboutloveorconditions;and tonight, Christmas Eve,will be the first time in all their lives,those three,each one,that I will not be with them,reading "A Visit from Saint Nicholas,"and tucking them in;too expensive, with too little income,and if I don't work, I don't get paid,just like all the working poor;but the fourth one,who loves me unconditionally,I will get to see herin seven days;and part of the beauty isthat those three, my girls,continue to merely want Daddyto be happy;and in seven days, I will be, again,thanks to a woman beyond compare,and three girls who unconditionallylove their daddy.

December 24, 2009, for my daughters and for the Wifey. I love you all four, with every ounce of me, including all the so-called legendary brain cells. Whatever. I'm just your dad, and I'm just your chubby hubby.

12/23/09

Mom stared at me, like she had never laid eyes on me before in her life: "You have a special gift for me, but I have to close my eyes? I'm sorry, but I don't trust you. I haven't trusted you since you were in your late forties. No, late thirties. Eh, scratch that, late twenties. Eh, screw it, late teens. Okay, fine, not even then. Whatever. I am not closing my eyes when you are in the room. Got it?"

"Stick out my hand? What, are you fuckin nuts? I am not going to close my eyes, and yet somehow, you think that I will then, nonetheless, stick out my naked hand for you to drop some perverted shit into it? Do you think that I fell with the fuckin rain last night?"

"No, mom, I am fairly sure that you did not fall with the rain last night. I would have heard the gigantic thump, thump, thump, bump, bump, badadadada, bang bang whump, if you had."

"Wait a minute, mister, are you sayin something about the size of my butt or something?"

"No, mom, I am fairly sure that even with the available twenty-six letters, and all of their possible combinations, that it is not possible, in the English language, to say something about the size of your butt. That would require several more languages, a whole lot of vowels, a few major consonants, and probably a little K-Y."

"You are mocking me, aren't you? You think that I can't figure out what you are sayin, and so you are sayin cruel, spiteful things to me, about me, when you think that I can't tell that you are, aren't you?"

"No, mom, I know that you can tell when I am considering you as a mouth-breathing, totally dysfunctional moron, incapable of much more than tying your shoes. And I also know that, notwithstanding all of the immediately available evidence that I think you are a complete waste of oxygen, that you will smile, nod, and agree that I have your best interests at heart. Ain't familial love grand?"

"Famiminalial whatevah. What is this gift that you have for me, you misbegotten total failure of a man, what is it?"

"Now, mom, don't be waxin sentimental on me, or even mental, or for that matter, metal; no Gene Simmons moves, ok, mom?"

"No worries, regrettable spawn of my loins. Not even one Ozzy move, no Iggy Stooge replays, nothing. Lay it on me, you major league disappointment, put it right over the plate."

"Okay, mom, as you have asked, so it will be done. Hey, I sound like a priest!"

"Calmate, niño, you are no priest, believe me. So show me the freakin gift, already!"

"Okay, here it is, mom. It's a petrified turd of mine from when I was two years old. I saved it, because I knew that many years later, you would find it precious."

"A what? You are kidding me, right? You are giving me a gift which is a turd from when you were just off my tit? Am I getting that right?"

"Yes, mom, that brown, dusty little bit of crusty nastiness is your present. I feel like it is a secret bond that only you and I share."

She stared at me, like she usually does, a cross between a coyote sizing up dinner and an old lady who can barely see. I could tell that she was formulating a response, as I saw the steam start seeping out of her ears.

"What kind of a goddamn Christmas present is that, you worthless moron? You are giving me a piece of your own shit for a Christmas present?"

"Yes, I am, mom. Because it is a lot less injurious to my future."

"Injurious to your future? I can't believe that you were able to use "injurious" correctly in a sentence, you mouthbreathing cretin."

"Yes, and thank you, mom. If I had given you what I really wanted to give you, it could have resulted in a felony arrest and prosecution. So I settled on the turd instead."

"What were you planning on giving me before, nitwit?"

"I was planning on giving you that carving knife, the one that you don't let anyone use. I was planning on giving it to you between your third and fourth ribs, mom."

"Oh, I get it. You are too cheap to give me a gift that you selected, that you purchased, you just were going to give me something that I own. You are so worthless, it makes me laugh. Here, keep your petrified turd, you dopey sonovabitch."

"Well I don't want to disappoint you, mom. So here, here's the carving knife. I hope you enjoy it."

The look on her face was priceless, as the blade sunk in. Not just shock, but a strange maniacal look, like she had been waiting for it for a long time, but never expected it to arrive.

"Well, shithead," she gasped, "I guess you have just injured your future."

"Not really, mom, this is just a story. You know that I would never do such a foolish thing. You're fine. You haven't been murdered. You are just overtired. You ought to get some rest, maybe lie down for a while."

"I can't believe my ears," she gurgled with her last breath, "but I actually agree with you, you imbecile. I think I do need to take a little rest."

Her eyes closed, and the blood began to turn brown, and I knew that I had given her the best. The Christmas gift of all time. I was proud of myself, and I knew, that somewhere around the seventh circle of Hell, she was proud of me too.

you can never gettoo many hugs,or too much relieffrom things that bug you;

there's no such thingas too much wishin',and if you have cancer,you're always up fora little more remission;

ah, too cutesy, you say,and you turn your head away;too many rhymes,and not nearly enough time,spent on things that areOh So Important To Say;

eh, with all the death anddestruction around,and all the lives in need ofreconstruction,we ought to declare a specialholiday, when everyone getsto say what they want to sayin their own special way,without having a goddamnedelection or some such otheropportunity for the majorityto stick it to us one more time,whether or not they've adecent rhyme, or the sense ofmeter to make the rhythm shine;

no such thing as a silly songto sing, if all you have left isone simple melody, even off-key,if a song helps you along, it's yourown serendipity, your own pickingof the lock for which there is no key;

you never can receive too muchunconditional love; it's what makesfalling down make us reach up above;nor is there a proper quota on fun,try it, have some, and you will havewon; maybe not the war, but certainlythe battle at hand; and then sing youroff-key song, sing it to beat the band;

oh no, there goes another cliché:will he spout them until he is carried away?

maybe I will, and maybe I won't, andI will not say, save only that I never letnaysayers stand in my way; I am here topreach love, and to ensure that you do notforget that I hope that all that is wonderfulis all that you get, and then some;

12/20/09

outside, baby, the storm rages,dropping all that white all over,while I flip through care-worn pages,and realize that You are like no other;I may need You to save me,from all that accumulating nieve;

blessing me, every day, with Your love,such a silly fool that I remain, still,no showers of frozen water from above,will ever let me complain,while I enjoy all the charms thatYou employ, as You take us downthat primrose path, past all the bad,past all the past, past the wrathvisited so unfairly on You, andby extension, on me;

now, just the capture of what we wrought,a souvenir of all that we bought,lock, stock, and barrel:You and I, cemented in the middle,maybe a new life to seek,maybe not so very meek as to say,today is the first dayof forever, whatever, and evershall be: me for You,and You for me;

as I have You, here, the distancemakes my love for You everclear:part, momentarily, my dear,as we always must,but for always, we are together.

12/18/09

this night, especially,the sound of You sleeping,inches away,comforts me more than my silly wordscan say;

comfort now is found,but reality always rebounds,as I realize that I almost lost me,but more importantly, You,earlier today, whensomething seized me,held me tight in a grip,and yet somehow,there was a small click,a switch switched, and I continuedon my zigzag tripto somewhere,at least to now,and tomorrow, but somehow,the elation of survivalis the second cousin of sorrow;

another day to love You,more chances to show my true selfa little bit more than just words,my arms holding You tighter,this life, feeling just a little righterthan when I started this day,unaware that something might conspireto take me away from You, again,like those lives before, way back when,when the way was lit with smoky torches,and all I could see were Your eyes,and That Smile, through the haze,those days, dimly lit now,but burned in my eyes so clear, andyet somehow, for a time today,I did not remember You,and lost my focus, lost my bearings,and I was adrift;

I cannot measure my determination,my will, my strength, my ardor for Youin any useful way, but I hope that it willsuffice to say, that I am now dedicatedin more ways than I can say,come what may,to never leave You.

12/17/09

I still manage to put one foot in front of the other,and generally get to where I need to go,even though you constantly push me aside,your eyes on the prize of the day,as you let nothing get in your way;

I breathe pretty well most of the time,even with your foot pressing down on my neck;I still smile when I see something beautiful,even though your grimace looms over the landscape;

I believe in the innate goodness of people,even though you manage to make malice seemlike the order of the day, in every way;While you worry about whether your latte will be freshly brewed,I wonder what I will do tomorrow about food;

You laugh at those whose frailties show, you snicker,but what will come to you, in time, will make you sickerthan you seem to me now, all attitude and eyebrow;

I used to be on the top of the pile, like you are now,and I learned how easy it is to fall, and how fast it can come;I can see that in your eyes today, that simple slipwhen misfortune takes everything, and makes you run for cover;one day, you will be down here, though you will likely not see,you will probably not discover that having nothing to lose,means that you are really, really free;

Of course, in your mindset, you will never have a regret,you will never appreciate all that fate and pure luck gave you,even when you hit the bottom, and there is no one left who cares,no one who will even try to save you, even yourself,and all your accumulation will amount to nothing,rotting and corroding on some too-high-to-reach shelf;

Every time I feel especially low, I take a moment, like now,to feel really sorry for those like you, who would not knowwhat to do, or where to turn, if you were in my shoes,and I wind up, oddly, having so much pity for you.

12/16/09

tonight, yet another in a long lineof nights that I wish that I was there,with my hands full of You,juggling nothing but Your voluptuousness,seeking nothing but a little more,willing to take the boat of romancequite a ways off the shore --discoverers and loversshare something important:the willingness to explore --and I never tire of turning overone more time,and finding another facet of You,a surprise not quite plainly viewed,but one that widens my eyes,gives me a view that is new,reminds me of how complex You are,a lover quite simple,but a lover beyond compare,a thousand million things,and all right there.

okay, let's be brutally honest:candid, frank --hey, we could even shoot for truthful --there are no "operators standing by",and if you do not "act now"it simply means that someone willfinish their crossword booksooner than they otherwisemight have,and pull out a new one,or reach for the latest issue ofThe Star;so relax,don't worry about the doubled offer:someone will be "sitting by"on their big fat assanytime tomorrow.

12/13/09

I wore your leather jacket,the one from years ago,out in the rain today,but the pain was not good enoughwithout you around to grimaceas the big raindrops left theirdark splotchesright about where I would placea bodyshot, if I was not soenamored of headshots;and then I ripped a photo of youinto twoor threemillion pieces,sprinkling them on the groundas the rain beat down,turning your jacketinto trash;and I hoped that foreveryou moan and thrash,and know no peace,and die a slow, painful death,jacketless.

the Huey glides by,inches above the far horizon,close enough of a speck to see,but barely close enough to hear;something rises from these distant hills,some magic, sentto inspire with thrillsor certain death,beneath icy, salty barriersto immortality;and so the searchfor the wayward vessel,caught in some lurch of the sea,continuescontinuescontinues,until at last, every inch has beenmapped, studied, frozen in the eye,and there is nothing,just nothing to be found,not more time,nor more hope,only watersholding secrets forever.

the "good girls," of course,are really boring, untilhopefully, you have the luck,or the good sense,or even the skill,to bring out the inner "bad girl" in them:that's when life gets interesting,when you spend at least half the time,covering up, dodging flying shoes,guarding the bottle,sleeping with one eye open,as you lie on a bed of nails;luckily for me,You only play a good girl on TV(I know it's not my skill,it's at best serendipity),and so life is just one longhold-your-breath-and-hang-on-tight thrill,from the first thing in the dayuntil way into the tomb of night,rockin', rollin',feelin', knowin',that everything here isjust right.

this morning, after a week of windsstrong enough to turn your head around,there is no breeze at all at Ned's Point,only clear blue sky,some distant nimbus clouds,and the water in the harborlooks like Nana just finished ironing it;hardly any people here either,as if they were all led away in the night,last night, the night thatI most recently waited patiently for You,and You never arrived;this stillness, broken only by a coupleof somber cackles of gulls,gives me a concrete senseof what my world would be likeif You were no longer in it,and the feeling, that feeling,starts to sicken me,and so I decide that I must write itall down in order to remember it, as Ihave high hopes to never know it again.

12/11/09

framed in doorways,some looking mournful,others glaring right through me;and those in repose,with the same downward cantof the hips,trapped in the motionless seaof twisted sheets,rumpled bedclothes,some sneering,others, with full lips,pouting;always the curves,every one of themdeadly, ready to take a manand toss him over the embankment,for crimes done,or simply for fun;short and tall,dark and fair,all in all,they remain frozen there:captured beneath my eyelids,as I seek what is hidden,unwritten, underscored,italicized,as I stare, mesmerized;this begins all,and ends with a fall,a stumble, a misstep,and suddenly,all that is leftare silhouettes.

12/10/09

our friend says that she doesn't condoneour relationship, which of course comesas no surprise, since few people would;most anyone would see nothing but bad,their view clouded, blocking out the good;but we never sought this love, itcame as a bolt to hit the mark, and we wereboth caught flat-footed, stunned bywhat sprang up before us, consumed us;and we chose,yes, we chose,not to deny it, which seemed a sin,and probing deeper, we both came to believethat we had been lovers before,many, many times over millennia --too much that fit so well, soulmates --not in some pop-psych sort of way,but in ways that are hard to put into words,and we knew,we just knew,that we had been each other's before,and pure chance had brought us together again,after who knows how many lifetimes;in this life, the most unlikely of couples,but yet, such a perfect fitin a world filled with imperfect puzzles;we cannot explain the inexplicable,nor can we apologize for this bond,this love that runs so deep, so true --who apologizes for real love, true devotion?who turns their back on something somagnificent, so rare, an unending pledgeto always be there?we do not know where this path leads,only that we must follow it,embrace each other, and know, in the quiet,still moments, that we were alwayssimply meant to be.

12/8/09

I adore You:You are better than any sunrise,better than Ned's Point,or chocolate,lobster,Christmas,expresso,The Beatles,apple pie,Cajun seared catfish,chili,fresh fruit,ham and eggs,smoked oysters,habañeros,fig newtons,martinis,ribeye steak,buttermilk biscuits,down comforters,scallops wrapped in bacon,bourbon,massages,Thanksgiving,coffee,boursin,linguica and chorizo,Bukowski,pastrami on rye,all nine symphonies,salsa picante,free drinks,smoked Gouda,jalapeños,every known songbird,pot roast,puppies,omelets,Port,Billy Collins,jumbo shrimp,rainbows,ice cold beer,William Blake,kittens,meatloaf,grilled cheese sandwiches,rock 'n' roll,Updike,sancocho,hot showers,oysters on the half shell,sleeping in,Adrienne Rich,Vidalia onions,bologna sandwiches,any pome I have ever written,better than any of the things that I enjoy,and all of them combined;all of the women that I have ever known,laid end to end,would never measure up to You;it's true, every bit:I am so lucky to have You,that it is a wonder that I am notblack and blue from pinching myself.

my fingers struggle mightily with these keysas the petrification begins,but still, there might someday be something usefulto be gleaned from this, some glimmer of something;and as always, I am dutiful,I am the last one to leave the scene of the crime,absorbing every detail, my mental vacuumsucking up every bit,recordingrecordingrecordingtesting one two three

he pushed,and I pulled,and between us, we now have four empty hands,having managed to do not much but tear You apart;who could live with this?who could go another day,with Your blood on their hands?

over millennia, You and I, playing cat and mouse, playfullyplaying house, challenging each other to love's brightly-colored games,all tried-and-true, even though I forget all their names;one lifetime together, and two apart, yeteach time we found each other, it was never a new start:we knew each other like the moccasin knows the foot,like the glove knows the hand,like the hourglass feels each tumbling grain of sand;

and yet, this time, this time it hurts like never before,like the window keeps slamming shut,in perfect syncopation with the heavy door,and I sit here, my mind on fire and my heart on the floor,and I wish it were not so,that You felt that You had to go,I wish that it were not so,wish that it were not so;

of course, this life has been just another in such a long string,appropriate for much and yet apropos of nothing;another testing ground for philosophy,another set of challenges for You and for me:charting the hidden paths of love's deepest courses,holding each other so close in spite of wild horses,living in each other's hearts and arms so comfortably,seeing everything at once, knowing just what to be,to be the alpha and the omega of two beating hearts,the sine qua non of passion's endless starts and stops,actors enabled by fevered pitches without any need of props;

and I told You, even as I begged you to stay,I vowed that if You left, that I would follow,that today melts into tomorrow's sorrow, and yet even so,if You left, that then I too would go,and so I will, I am leaving tonight,hot on Your trail, following the wisp of vapor that is Your tail,taking in Your scent, as You make your descent,breathing in once again, as You breathe out,and it being fresh this time, I know I will catch up to You,if it is the last immortal thing that I ever do;

then there is the matter of our six orphans left behind,what is to become of them?they are left in capable hands, You told me,and although I could not accept such glibly,I acceded to Your assertions, and pray only that You were,once again, entirely correct, flawless in Your estimationof cause and effect, of how things turn out, century after century;

I shall be with You again soon, mi amor,Loving you True, siempre.

December 7, 2009, for the Wifey. False alarm, but the path lies waiting.

12/6/09

the oriole, the robin, and the wrenare engaged in a lively conversationthis Sunday morningabout how rapidly the tideis going out, creatingone-foot swells as it races out to sea;the oriole wondersif the harbor might be emptied,leaving lots of food exposedto the winter sun;the robin cackles a laugh,as she spits out a chokeberry,mistaken for bittersweet,and the wren keeps her opinionson the end of the harbor to herself;the dripping of the melting snowprovides the only rhythmfor this sun-drenched conversation,and I imagine you and Ias birds, flitting from branch to branch,singing, laughing, loving,and certain that at some point,the tide will stop going out,and return.

12/5/09

snuffed out candles,black wreaths,moldy food on display,and the winter coldescapes your bitter heartand appears in shadowsthat seem as determinedto gleam as they seemcertain to stay;your winter's death,a cause for muchdark celebration:no more your vile bilecast out upon Creation;your last rattle of a breath,a welcome hello,as home nowcan once againreally be one,oh monster mine.

12/2/09

I look down at the floor:Your two tiny lime-green slipperssit next to my size 9 waterproof boots;they may seem disparate,but they have more in commonthan can be readily seen,and are more than comfortablenext to each other,like You and I:down through millennia,each of us, catching the other's eye;our reunion, now nine months old,is our ageless story,only once again retold:a love of all lifetimes,a love so bold,that it ventures to placesboth new and old;You were mine once,and hence, evermore.

12/1/09

in Your cute Christmas pajamas,fresh as a daisyfrom Your shower,hair damp,a million-and-one ringlets of brown,Your former frownreplaced with That Smile,and not a speck yetof makeup:and I tell Youthat this is whenYou are most beautiful,and You give mea p'shaw,and blush,and I remind myselfthat I am a most fortunate man,to have Your love:You amaze me,and You honor me with such.

11/23/09

you sit there,you yammering, stammering,well-heeled, well-oiled asses,arguing about whether peopleshould receive adequate health-careas a civil right,while meanwhile I sit here,slowly disintegrating,day by day approachinga vapor, that the next winter windwill casually blow away;while millions, yes read it again,millions, face certain early doom,demise that they will realizein the stark darkness of some lonelyroom, where no one cares, nor isaware, that a person is about to depart;unscrew you, you self-satisfied henchmen,you well-fed, well-cared, benchmen:as you debate our fate,we will come to press your faceto the red-hot grate,and see what then you thinkis worthy of mention.

and always on the fucking margins, man,always playing it a little safe,like even Buk, although I adorethat sonovabitch every day of my life,never crossed some lines,never sometimes cast down a few stones,worried over some rhymes,or pissed on the dress shoes of a few real pomes;goddammit had a little fucking funat the expense of nearly everyoneand said fuck you to the guy next doorand laid my dick in wet sawduston a bar-room floor covered with wet whoresand stayed up all night longjust to see if I still fucking couldand watched with fascinationas I goddamned well got wood,thinking about you,thinking about you.

while I was starving,lying in the middle of your orchard,you, and your compatriotsdestined me for the kill,and yet, I write these words,lessening your thrill;and so I stand,resolute,and I thereby constituteyour most avoided nightmare:I am now what you wishedthat I might never be:I am now where you always hopedthat time would never find me;Your Master,your disaster,your undoing,and all of your machinations,spewingregret,but never willing to forget,will not declaim me:I am of you,and your protestsreaffirm me,and Yes, I will live pastall the derisionto which you haveconsigned me,because I am morethan what you foolishlyhad sought to design for me,and yet,I live on,as your tremors overtake you,and your bladder emptieson your feet of clay.

your blood stains my shirt,and I am supremely unimpressed;I look at your bodywith the same disdainas when you were alive,moments ago;you are gone now,no longer a waste of oxygen,no more a brute,no more a monster;you now seem so small,so incapable of horrific deeds,and maybe that smallnessis just what my soul needs;you now go, wherever it isthat we all go,eventually,to nothing,or to everythingfor which your putrid lifequalifies you;and I sit, quite unconcerned,as the bloodstains go fromcrimsonto brown,and as life is now righted,having been turnedupside down;justifiable?not even a question,as your obituarywill never mentionyour whippings,your derisionof all that I ever sought,not to mentionall of your machinationsto gain more attentionof an ego so overwrought;you miserable, wretched,bitter old person,now you have learnedthe ultimate lesson:an abuser always meetsthe fate that they set,and what they receiveis that the abusednever forget.

11/20/09

time recedes,and memory bleedstoo-short memories of you;I was only 13 when you died,and I remember,forty-two years hence,how I convulsed,how I cried,when the sirens were quieted,and Dr. Baxter came outfrom your room,and said the obligatory"I'm sorry" and then trudgeddown the hall of the hospital,to the next aggrieved family;Oh, Grampa,I need you now more than ever,as life throws one curveball after another;please be here with me,sharing an apple,or some fish drenched in molé,as I unload all my uncertainties,to you, a man always so certain:"measure twice, and cut once,"you taught me,and now I need you to help memeasure the second time,because She is too preciousto lose because of an inaccuratemeasurement;She is the world, and I am merelya distant moon;and I swear, on the heads of yourgreat-granddaughters,that She is the One,whom, down through time,I have chased, and sometimesgained, the One that was alwaysmy aim;so please, Grampa,help me to claimwhat I seek:contemplating any loss of whom,makes me weak.

11/15/09

my lust is transparent,and Her satisfaction,translucent,as morning comes forever;and somewhere,in the many mysterieshidden under rented bedclothes,hands find warm flesh,and hearts pound outa salsa beat,as tender merciesgive a home to restless loins,and Saturday night fantasies;and morning comes forever,as sleep is left asidefor the times of separation,which are treacherous and wide;and want becomes need,and we are like sucklings,ready to feed,heated but not sated,and morning comes forever,even as we waited.

She floats, in that white dress,just slightly above the ground,Her head back, at times,with the music of Her laughterechoing off the lighthouse,off these rocks, born whenthe Earth was an orb slowlycooling;he hears the sound of Her,and he runs barefootthrough fields of broken glass,while snipers, heavily armed,take aim;and She softly calls his name,and Her smile lights everydark corner of the nighttime world,and even the dark placesin his soul;he runs, undaunted, determined,and She beckons,with that trademark crooked index finger,and he runs and runs;one day, he will catch Her,and bring Her into his arms.

it is November 15,and there is one sailboatstill resolutely moored in the harbor,and I wonder:is the ownermerely an optimist,who firmly believesthat Winter's stingwill not come,or is he a wild-eyed fool,who will sail in any weather,so enamored of the salty spray,that he would risk his lifein dark, icy waters,heaving his craft up and down,side to side, threateningto swallow boat and sailor,whole;or maybe he is dead, and no longerhas need of his jib;or maybe his wife's asshas enough allureto keep his boat moored,while he is otherwise engaged.

11/14/09

You credit me,with having helped you througha time most difficult,most fraught with anguish;and You tell me that not oncedid I let you languishin self-deprecation,in unspeakable despair;that, time after time,moment after moment,day after day,that I was there,there for You in a waythat held a flashlight forwardto help You find a wayback into the life of today;and I blush inwardly,and remind You that I amall in, committed to whateverit takes for You to regainYourself, Your health,Your sense of worth,sense of purpose,Your innate raison d'etre:and how I manage to get You theredoes not matter,and any small, silly sacrificethat I make in the course of things,is not worth noting,if I am able to send You back,mostly whole again.

November 13, 2009, for the Wifey, and in honor of our nine months together.

11/13/09

the dull hum of the air handlercreates enough white noisethat you could easily fall asleep,if not for the fact thatyou sit in the foyer of thehouse of death,watching as all the woundedand afflicted in the worldwander by, seeking aid,searching for cures,for hope in a hopeless world,scrubbed daily for all that it's worth,bleached and sterilizedby the terrified,the keepers of empty whitenessand blank minds,that have never savored sonnets,or gently kissed nipples of elegance,nor drunk deeply a fine Port,while the taste of a good brie lingers:kept clean,and so left barren.

11/12/09

easy, it isn't,peeling off layers,"waxing poetic"about love and life,following the critics'acceptable aesthetic;as I once wrote,"unscrew you with a hatful of bananas"like what you thinkreally fucking matters:if I move my readers,and as a writer, grow,wtf is your opinion worth,win, place, or show?I rhyme too much,that was long ago leveled,but as Byron long ago knew,such a corner, finely beveled,would be lost on the likes of you:"Sir, I will agree with your general rule,That every poet is a fool;But you, yourself, may serve to show it:Every fool is not a poet."amen.

11/11/09

when You sleep(dormirse bien, mi ciela),and I listen,something fliesright through me:Your spirit, ormaybe Your majesty,or maybe just an echoof the ecstasythat we have known;either way,what is shown to meis spectacular,singular,in its particularity:it is, at once,fondly kept,and a reason whyI have wept for joy,more than a few times, baby,more than a few times.

"nice ass,"I say, each timeshe runs past the pavilion;she has her ear buds in, though,and hears nothingon this quiet morning,with fish racing,gulls hovering,leaves rustling,time playing outits last bit of string,as the sun continuesto bleach these rocks,and an older mantries to record it all,reflecting,refracting,recollecting;but dammitsomeone needs topull those ear buds out,and tell her that all that runninghas donemore than a little good.

11/10/09

the cries of gullsand the drone of Cessnasinterrupt the tinklingof wind chimes,as I look upon the millionsof dead bodiesstrewn across the face of the turf,as the tide rushes for the shore,and the church bellsall proclaim salvation;most of the sailboatsare gone now,off to their winter berths,and the squirrels nervouslygather and scrambleto their oak leaf nests;this is the season of dying,and the way we meet --like the sky and the gull,beautiful, but gone too soon --till the next gliding arcof the rising bird,like the days coming upwhen I will be with You again;each morning now passedis one more closer to You,and amidst all this mortality,I suddenly feel very alive.

the sun is bright and the wind steady,out of the northeast,as I watch the tri-mast schooner,in full sail, crossing the harbor,the cut of its jib,like the Tip of the Spear,like a proud young manbefore his blushing virgin;the gulls sleep,as the flag flappingstands erect overthe ants marching;I watch her drive to the water's edge,idling, palms sweating,heart racing,as she stifles a sob or two,tears cascading downpowdered cheeks;and then, resolve restored,she guns the engine,and sails into yesterday,momentarily triumphant.

11/8/09

at last, he was not sureif he had consumed the drinks,or if the drinks had consumed him,but either way,the work got betterand better,the wetter he got,sinuses filled with snot;and yet he soldiered on,until most of himwas gone:one more to be admiredmuchly,long after he was gone:a bunch of silly lines,left to linger on.

11/6/09

he asked me,the smartass little prick,when I thought thatI might stop swingin' at pitches;and I looked at him,dead in the eye,and said:"when you're dead,"and he let out a big laugh,damned near big enoughto split himself in half,and that's when I shot him.

never brandish scissorsin front of someonewho is at the endof their rope.

the kid's harmonicawailsever since Grandmaturned him on toDylan,who he thinkshe can be,Lord willin';I reflect onthe impossibilityof himmanning the watchtower,while these timeskeep changin',and I figure,what the hell,let the kid dream,he will know,soon enough;maybe he can bePopper instead.

dormirse, bien,mi ciela;it is beyond wonderfulto have the musical,magical,mysticalsounds of yousleeping,back in my ears:toils, soils,tears, fears,trails, travails;all fall silent,become distant,as I listen to the constantrise and fall of yourbreathing,wreathing all of this lovethat we catch,faultless,leavingnothingunexpected,only union,unanimously electedby a wide marginof only two;the best of choices,only the two voicesthat matter in the matterat hand, at all.

the green, the blue, and the grey,all well-lit,as I am astray,akimbo,when the cloudburst arrives,consideringhow many livesit has taken meto find You again;this time of broken glass,shards piercingthe bubbles of time passed,and once again,I remember now as then,I am better than I was,since I have loved Youwhen the Earth was young,and when it explodes,and there is nothing left butmemory.

11/1/09

November begins today,as I sit at our picnic tableat Ned's Point,eating the three Lindt trufflesthat you gave me for Halloween,looking out at the harbor --a Jerry Schurr renderingof sun, clouds, sea andthe islands, set out in a long row --a gull spots my candy,and lets out a loud cry:"No," I say, "not for you.They are mine, a giftfrom Her. Go find a mackerel."and off he goes,but not happily;the wind swellsfor a moment,as I decide thatthere might be a poemamidst all this.

outside, the wind bellows,as if it has some particular purpose,and I recall that You aresuddenlyon the other side of the map,and yet when my thoughtscurl up, fetch their slippers,and smoking jacket,I remember that I amthe whole man that I am,despite the lackof You, warming me,disarming me,making me just so,your ebb, a counterto my breathing out,a stop to my flow.

when You quiver,I feel a shiverright down the middle of me;when you glow,I know,and I can find Youin the dark;when You feel me,I know You,I feel Your spark --it energizes me,exercises me,opens me upto stark reality,You and I --You and me,finding, exploring,remembering,sedulously.

though I am no Prince:lovin' heartsand secret wishes,BANG!and I appear before you:three thousand miles apart,and at oncewe both think ofstolen kisses,and how much, my love,the mind wanders,when the handmisses the glove;that we met (again),kismet:the beauty of fateis that no matterhow great one perceivesoneself to be,most of life isserendipity.

I was panicked,and she was stagnant;then one day,she packed it all up,told me once againto shut up, andshe left;and I sat, andlonged for some triggerto pull,but there was only silence,slicedby heavy footstepson hardwood floors,as hundreds of windowsclosed,simultaneouslywith hundreds of doors,creaking.

10/30/09

losing light,he takes a chance,and hurls one up high,way above the lights:a last chance at alittle romance;and who knew,but that little scamptook flight,into the night,and now there isnothing around,but what was found:which is perfect;and what it is inside,is quite the sight:who gets to call an endto this one?no one.

it just wouldn't do, merelysexing you; it would be great,of course, no regret, no remorse,since you are da best, number oneon any man's list of requests,but no, no, that shit is just notgonna go, no way that it is gonnaflow; demeaning the gleamingof you removes all the meaningfrom what we have for all of ourteaming; so we have to find a bitmore space to retrace to the placewhere we started, find out whereit was that our intentions parted,look for what there was betweenyou and I that soared, that touchedthe sky, and flowed, and glowed,and let us both know that this lovewas timeless, flawless, perfect:something inevitable, quiet,hidden, even circumspect;a condition not subject to anyrendition, merely a state of being,that gives us both the meaning,of an all consuming love.

10/26/09

attackedfrom withinand without:take me, butonly if you leaveno doubtthat my daughters,and Her,will be spared this,so they may live and lovelong, without further disaster;and if you will agree,then seize me,Master;if however, you disagree,prepare to meet meat the Gates of Hell,to do battle,my hands stranglingyour slimy, slippery throat,until at last,you succumbto your sharp-eyedstudent, your latestincarnationof ill intent.

10/25/09

the winds come,this night,winnowing;deciding what will beleft,and what will have usmourningin the morning;how much will be goneand how little leftfor us to live on,move on,be on,be in,pretend to winagainst Nature's might,cast down here,relentless,through the night;fools, we are,to cast our hopeson a distant star,which next minutecould simply fade,and leave life as we know it,big time in the shade:the mightiest forest,shattered,smattered,laid flat,no longer a glade,a haven,a respite,but merely a bladeor two, of what originallykept it;we dance around the campfire,and sing,"we are those, who brought deathto everything."

a cast character actor,you were only followingthe script,what the writer was reallyafter,what would be otherwisenondescript, lost,tossed, forsaken:love left bleeding, broken,never taken,something that you puzzle overwhen you awaken,long overwhelmed,overtaken,by what it was that left youshaken,wondering,what had passed this way,worrying aboutwhat you would say,to everyone who camethis way, today:"it just overcame me,it was a singularity,taken flight, and I hope neveragain to see it this night,"as you paused, in repose,but as everyone knows,you left as you had arrived,with your choicesalready chose.

10/23/09

the parting,made no easierby its repetition,as we two returnto our respective conditions:I turn left,as she turns right,both of us feeling the loss,feeling bereft;eyes locked,hands clasped,lips trembling,we both wishfor some other ending,even, perhaps one that isnever-ending,with neither of us havingto bow to the relentlessflow of such a strongundertowas responsibility,invading the cocoonof two lovers' heatedtranquility:those stolen hourslike pressed-flat flowersin our memories,in our multicolored stories,of just over one day passed,but one that will long last,until union is reunionand again our die is cast:unresolvable,unsolvable,yet immutable,eternal,fixed on some vernal pointon time's horizon,one that only we twowill recognizewhen it comes again;when it comes again.

I go north,as she goes south,yet this love remainsso solidly in the center;two lives, so disparate,but two souls sent downthrough time,me to be hers,and she to be mine;some might laugh,and cast it off as some crueltrick that star-crossed minds play,but they would be wrongby more than half,as we know, this day, thatthis love of ours has tumbledand tossed,has been won and lost,in more ways thanthere have been days;measures of treasures passed,lost, ruptured, broken, castdown long shadows of time,when rocks were still young;all of the many songsthat our hearts have sung,cascade down upon us,neither of us ever equippedto say good-bye,trapped in the valley that islove's vast crater,we can only wave,quivering,and mutter,"see you later."

the writing surface I am using right nowis a first edition paperbackof The Roominghouse Madrigals;if you want one now,they go for about sixty dollars online,when you can find one;sad, maybe, that Buk didin 24 short years, whatI haven't done in 39,give fruit.Although, I did just talkto my oldest daughter,who is both beautiful and brilliant,heart and soul where they should be,and she turned 22 about 22 minutes ago,and she is an exampleof my very best work;so no sixty-buck books,but still,fruit.

wrong day for the fall picnic,as the sky empties its bladderon everything and everyone,and the gale-force windgives flight to the previously flightless:yes, today, penguins and pigsare set loose to soaralong with the fast food wrappersand Dunkin Donuts cups;the flotsam and jetsamof the brave new century,as we worry ourselves into cocoons,hiding, hiding, hiding,lest we be discovered by the wolf,who looks very much like us;in here, we are safe,from this nasty weatherand that nasty wolf,even though we find it increasinglyhard to move, to breathe,and slowly, imperceptibly,we simply atrophy.

the lone gull eyes me carefully --I am no starfish, that's for sure;just a pobrecito in the rain,some strange creature, lost,out of place, as sheets of rainpelt the soggy grass that is nowmore than ready for winter's sleep --another inconvenience to avoidas he pecks the soil for the inevitabledrowning worms --not exactly fresh mackerel,but they will have to do for this morning,as the gale is inhospitableto flight over the grey water of the harbor --land-bound, as am I,he does as I do,in a gull sort of way,he makes do,I make do,and we both exist that way.

I've put them on ice,so to speak,since I am so in love with Her;or at least I've tried:they still work theirmagic,no matter whereI find myself --the grocery store,the drugstore,at a meeting that I'm covering,in a gift shop looking forthat perfect little thingto tell Her that She meanseverything to me,walking down the street,at the post office,pumping gas,loitering in front ofthe Dollar Tree store,sitting in the parkwriting poems,browsing the used books,doing research at the library,everywhere I go --they work, without me evenknowing,and I glance up,and see the smiles,the guiles,the wiles,usually of the brown-eyed girls,and I avert the killer electric bluesas quickly as I can,since I am not theirs,since I am Her man.

Sometimes, no hell, most of the times,I wish that I had a name that I could puton it, something that would tack it down,take it more than just one turn around,put me back to where I was, maybe evenon the ground, back when having Youaround, just around, was the best thingthat there was that I had found, you andme, bound to something that was biggerand better than both of us, when all wehad to discuss was not all that much,back when things were simpler, whenthey were clearer, starker, and yourdimples were just dimples, and not theparts that I hung my heart on, that mademe just speechless, that made me stop,look, and listen, to what made my heartstop, seek, flow, and glisten with thediscovery of you, what had been solong part of us, what was true, eveneternal, down millennia, down alltime, You and me, and then I stopmyself, I put all those nameless, sillyworries back on the shelf, and I justknow, that what we know, that whatwe show, well, it may be nameless,but that is okay, because it is simplytimeless.

this Sunday morningfinds Ned's Pointquiet: an oddity,virtually no wind(not a good day for sailors),but bright and sunny,as autumnal urgesbeckon gulls to sleepstanding up,and the schools of mackereltake a breather;I sit at the table,set just as it was,with you perched atop,legs crossed,your smile entering me,your laugh, breakingthe silence;and though the day begsquiet reflection,I stick toremembrance instead.

and I have many timesconsideredthe fascination,with no conclusion;maybe it is merelysome Euclideandream sequence,long, soft, slopingcurves,and a fullness,a richness,that is almostagrarian in itssensuality,its eroticity --a mystery,likely lost tosome history --but still, its oval,its perfect ellipses,have drawn manyto ecstasyupon its view;

I know of onesuch preciseposterior, and Isaw it again,just last month:as I liftedthe bedsheet,there it was --crafted bygenetics,aerobics,antics --no matter,it is the fuel,the lifeblood,the brain food,of romanticslike me,and it isforeverburned intomy retinas.

10/8/09

outside, the wind rages,carrying her swirling petticoats,dancing far above me,a speck on a small rock,far below;and all that I do not know,falls and flies,to and fro, likedragonflies,seemingly without purpose,in this crazy, mixed-up circus,that we call Life;but tonight,there is a silenceinside this room,as your voice,your laughter,will not incandescethis mess, this by-productof generationsof largesse:as I will sit, silently,alone, wishing thatyou were on the phone,searching,nurturing,seeking,always peekingaround a corner or two,just being the "You"of me and You,the one meant,and lived, asTrue,the one with a clear viewof a misty tomorrow,the one with a rearview,of unspeakable sorrow,that we walked,together;and so tonight,you must give dueto what is your duty,and I know that this mustbe so, this is the pricethat I pay to be low,downunder, below theradar, but only to go sofar:pledges, promises, vows,loom large,and we discharge ourobligations,our obviations,as mere eliminationsof what we wish werenot part of our emulations;

and so You go there,while I wait here,and we will meet again,on the morrow.

10/6/09

I was out today,feeling powerful,driving the PT,sunny, blue sky,about 65 degrees,windows down,shades on,glistening,reflecting,sunroof open,Fun 107 blastingDrake:Best I Ever Had,and I was feelingimmortal again,totally fuckinginvincible;(hell, I evenconsidered, briefly,unfasteningthe seat beltexcept I knewhow stronglyYou woulddisapprove),and I thought,this is one of thebest gifts thatYouhave given me:me,back;restored,17 again,but with38 yearsof experience;yeah, okay,a realpeacock moment,fine, guiltyas charged; but seeing as howlow I found my heartcould go onlyrecently, and nowwatching it clip cloudsas it cruisesthe atmosphere,well that is awesome(an overused word,but awe is the emotion),so I wanted to jot downa few lines to relate it,and to say thanksfor falling in love withme, for probably theone thousandth time,for making the climb,snagging the lineas I cruised by,only another soul,tumbling throughthe sky, and for beingso true after so manymillennia;soft and strong,fearless and panicky,deep and hilarious:the song that my heartsang centuries ago,the One I knowwill always find me,inspire me,believe in me,and on whom I casteyes of adoration,as I see you next to me,uttering a simple command:drive.

10/5/09

the image, burned so deeply intomy retinas, quite simply the mostdivine of such that I have everknown: my hands, holding yourhips, tight, with all my might,keeping you down on the bed,as your back arched, nearly takingflight, all night, as I took youinto multiple delights, so tight,that I could feel you becominga full-fledged sprite, a faeriefilled with light, but not quiteaire-borne, but so close, so veryclose that you knew that it wasme that had brought you, andthough it was your magicalcurfew, you lingered longenough to give me just enoughto keep me coming back formore, back to the silken beachesof your shore, back to have justa little bit more.

10/4/09

dreams dashed, hope crashed, nosurvivors found, nothing muchleft around the center of theimplosion, just a notion, that itcould have turned out so muchbetter, talent wasted, somethingsweet and spicy tasted, even iffor such a short time, even ifmore ridiculous than sublime,even if I could have fooledmyself one more time that Iwas still immortal, that I walkedthe halls of time, surveying allthat was once mine, thinkingthat all I held was fine, only totake that headfirst dive into amortality that consumes all thatis alive, including me, onceagain, setting me free to float ineternity, still seeking to find allthat inhabited my mind forcenturies, for millennia, yeah,yeah, yeah, baby, whatevahreally rocks ya, takes the socksoff ya, gets your groove workin,sets free that monster in thebackground that's lurkin, letsthat creature be the whole doublefeature, puts it all in perspective,leaves nothing to the imagination,leaves nothing to be elective,all mandatory, all the same oldsad story, that none of us get outof this life alive, that love downthrough eons may thrive, but notenough for any one of us to live,to survive, and so I will die yetagain, and forever and ever seekyou out, amen.

October 4, 2009, and no, it is not for You, or you, or you. It is for me.

10/3/09

the drained urns of all that I havelearned, all the sharp corners thatI have turned, do not have enoughvolume to express my love for You,my long-lost soulmate, tu, mujer:my one-and-only certain fateis to be forever in your arms,immersed in your magnificentcharms, setting off smoke alarms,up to my elbows in whoknows what, but all that you'vegot, and then some; yourwinsome looks, those quiet butdeadly hooks, and all that ittook to find you is more thananything before, and anythingthat I care to remind you of,but let's just call it an eternallove, since it is.

10/1/09

Calmaté, mi amigo, I have never intendedto take anything, or anyone, away fromyou, especially Her, on whom your wholelife has been built, to the hilt, and this istrue, es verdad, and you must know thatthis flow, this thing that did pop up andproceed to grow, well it was just asunexpected as the fact that we elected ablack president, it was just sent to us, ithappened, dude, and to deny it would bedenying the servitude that lovers, real,honest-to-God lovers, give to the lovethat consumes them, that rules all thatthey do, that makes them continue, movealong, live, and sing any old song, themovement that separates them from thedead and the dying, the quest, the vying,the searching, the trying, the exploration,the expiation, of a certain elation, of adiscovery of a recovery of a soul that Iloved so many thousands of years ago,and for whom I have been searching allthis time, through the ridiculous and thesublime, the One who was once mine, andI must announce now that I have finallyfound Her, and She is yours for most ofthe time, but for a moment or two, She isalso mine; a difficult concept for anyoneto grasp, but believe me, my man, thislove has traveled so far down throughtime, that I know that it is ours, Hers,and mine; and it will be so until the endof time.

this is the sort of morning,when even the gullswant to be somewhere else:wind at fifteen to twenty knots,out of the northeast,rain going sideways,seas at two feet --a classic play of Nature,as She seeks towipe this placeoff the map --

only poets and other foolsare out here today,mumbling disconsolatelyabout victims andprayers and dreams,picked up by the gale,and sent aloft,or tipped sideways,mast parallel to the water,scuttled.

9/27/09

I don't usually post works-in-progress, but I was feeling lazy, and not inspired enough to carry this through to a conclusion. So maybe you will like it. Next installment? Who knows?

"Fuck you, you lyin' bitch."

"Forget it, Nino, you know there is no chance of that train passing your way ever again."

"Fuck you with a rusty pipe, then, whatever. You might have been the worst lay ever, but it is not worth the heartbeats to Google it to be sure."

"Look, you asshole, I am just asking you to do the right thing. Is that so hard for you to comprehend?"

"Fuck you again, Aracelis, but this time with a bigger rusty pipe. God knows there's got to be plenty of room in there, in that thing."

"You are impossible."

"And impassible, bitch. So hang up and leave me the fuck alone."

"Look, motherfucker, these taxes are your obligation. Yours. And if you don't pay them, you will fuck up my life big time."

"Yeah, okay, so what's the downside?"

"The downside is that I file a lawsuit against your ass, dickwad. And extract it from you in the most painful way possible."

"Sorry, you did that shit already when we were married. I still can't believe that I ever put my dick in there with all those rats crawlin' around."

"Fuck you, you micro-dick asshole."

"Oh right, you want to negotiate, and that worn out thing you call a pussy is now on the table? Hey, ya know what? I am fucking leavin' the table as long as that skanky shit is sitting there. Buh-bye."

"No fuckin' way 'buh-bye' shithead. Imma come up there and serve you with the fuckin' papers myself."

"Celi, know this, and know it well: as I have said before, if I ever see you again, I will be forced to kill you, on sight. I will not be able to do otherwise. It is a pledge that I made with myself when you deserted me, and it cannot be broken. So if you are stupid enough to come, then you are ready to die, bitch. Okay?"

how I didn't want to stick my handup through the sunroof of the PTand sign "I love you"just minutes ago;it was just as hardas ending a call,and I unsuccessfully fought back tears,as I successfully kept the car in my control;

and now I sit here, at Ned's Point,reflecting, writingon another glorious36 hours with You,happy that our actionsspoke to all our past words:no hyperbole here;

and the sunlight on the wavesacross the breadth of the harborvainly strugglesto match the illuminationthat Your smile brings to my eyes,who send it downinto my heart and soul;

what a gorgeous, melodious rapturewe two in this time did capture,the concordance of timeless love,captured in the knowing glanceof a well-orchestrated circumstance;

You back there, and me, back here,until who knows when,Oh My Love,see you later, again.

9/23/09

You scream whenYour boy surprises You,lurking,and I imagine that it is insteadsome kind of bugthat has arrived unannouncedto Your space;and then,as You sleep,and I listen to the unique soundsthat are You,at peace,resting, nesting, testingthe limits of dreams,the measure of schemes,the way that Our Love gleams,even hidden under those pillows,the way time has a way of takingall of the winnows to task,seeking only what will last,only what eternally matters,and my resolve, and your desire,are both left in tatters,and Our Plan left disrobed,is more than We can stand,and We digress,to a formalness,that knows no past,no history that can ever be cast,as more than just two,just Me and You,recast,at last.